The Silver Tomb
by Adrian1
Summary: Bilbo has just given up the One Ring, and as he is heading towards Rivendell, he stumbles upon a mystery he and Gandalf did not investigate. Naturally Bilbo does.
1. Default Chapter

Between the two rivers, who are brothers to each other, lies a tomb. Between the two rivers is an island, where the tomb, made of pure silver, is built. On springtime the sun-smelten snow finds it's way down from Erebor, and floods the island for thirty moons and thirty-one suns. Mountain water, clearer than drops of elven-tears submerge the silver tomb utterly, leaving it to glimmer and glitter to the beholder's eye from under the liquid air, if viewed from the shore. It has no doors, nor windows, locks or nooks. Round and with a low cone-shaped roof it challenges every man, dwarf and elf alike to puzzle of it's meaning once they stumble upon it.  
  
Was there to be any writing in runery or even the language of Mordor, it would be easier for them to classify the structure, or guess it's nature. But no-one knows, and so it stood there on the newly emerged island between the two brothers: Almo and Elme. Some driftwood and pebbles washed down from the plateau have got stuck between the roof's elegant, but simple ornaments. Somewhat muddy and bouncing off the occasional sunbeam that happens to find it's way on the cleaner parts of the silver tomb, is sitting there, and waiting for another wanderer from far away to be amazed and find puzzlement. Ah, is that whistling of a wee folk that we hear?  
  
Short brown trousers, a sleevless shirt, no shoes to imprison those fast little feet and a worn-out bag over his shoulder: may I present to You - Bilbo Baggins... Of Shire. That's where he's coming right now, to find Rivendell and bring new and awful tidings to Elrond, one of Bilbo's dearest friends. Despite of the heavy burden of guilt he was feeling while leaving the Shire, he is now in a happy and a joyful mood, and has nearly forgotten about his birthday and its events, for hobbits are kind and playful by nature. Leaving the One Ring behind was a good choice, he is surely telling himself. He doesn't even seem to care for the knowledge that old age is having it's effects upon him, as it was delayed by the Ring's power before.  
  
From his bag might one get a glimpse of a big book, that doesn't seem to fit in with other supplies needed for a long journey, like a cauldron and blankets, so it's shape is visible even through the leather bag. Pages after pages of stories, made of his adventures and events, with maps and pictures added between the dragon-leather covers. The Shire was a peaceful place to write memoirs. If one would consider intrusive neigbours, meddling children on the doorstep, farm animals arguing to each other, and an all around annoyingly slow-paced daily life a peaceful place. No, that was not the reason or the cause Bilbo started to write his adventures anyway. He wrote exactly against against all the above, that was boring and provincial. Bilbo needed to feel the excitement of treasure hunting, the thrill of exploring, the feeling of being alive.  
  
It felt ironic to Bilbo himself, that his big book of recorded adventures would find their last chapters during the War of the Rings, while he is doing nothing more than sitting in the safety of Rivendell, and knowing, that he himself could have caused the One Ring to be found. Suddenly he shook his head and with a wave of his hand drove away the clouds of doubt and greater guilt. The times of shadows in his mind were gone now, that he had given the Ring up.  
  
Forward, thru the glade where he had seen the elven children dance between air and further on a bright moonlit night, with it's light stuck in their snowwhite hair and starshine echoing onwards in their eyes. They did hurry away once they saw young Bilbo Baggins fall down from the branches above the old oak because he got blinded as an elven maiden smiled in his direction, thus blinding the eyesight. Still onwards did he's feet take him.   
  
When Travelling with the Grey, he had passed the island on a few occasions, the times of the flood, and had only once gazed deep into the bottom of the sunken island, for once seeing a shimmering from the bottom he falsly thought it to belong to a elven girl. So did he stood there, staring at the cone-shaped roof. A light hand landed on his left shoulder.  
  
"Come now, it will get dark soon. Some shelter must be found, in case we do not want to fall for easy prey to the wolves, that seem to attack in packs now. Strange, that."  
  
"What is that, Gandalf? It shimmers, there, down at the bottom of the river. A chest full of silver coins, perhaps?" Said Bilbo, still staring at the riverbottom. A twinge ran down his spine, a quick adventure underwater, maybe?   
  
"That is no chest full of fortune and glory, my anxious friend," Said Gandalf from afar, for he had found a small cavern next to the higher cliffsides, that spring waters could not flood over and under. Already was he searching for sticks and fallen branches to start a fire with. Bilbo suddenly felt that Gandalf knew something about that mysterious load of silver, and smiled to himself, when realising that as it was so common to Gandalf, he kept most to himself than others wanted to hear.  
  
"So you know what that is down there, huh? I bet it's an egg of a frost dragon or something. Yea, I bet it has been lying down there for a thousand years, waiting for a bold hero strong and brave enough to lift it up from the mud of millenias with the help of a magic sword or pendant." Mumbled Bilbo, while going through his pockets searching for some wonderous object, that he hadn't noticed while packing.  
  
"Hey, Gandalf, what about if I'd use that staff of yours for a moment, eh? You wouldn't mind, would you?" Somewhere under the bushes that surrounded the large and old oak, Gandalf's voice echoed: "You never learn, my hasty friend. It is not to be used in such trivial matters. I think we'd best get this firewood inside that cavern before that nasty cloud reaches us."  
  
"What cloud?"  
  
A minute later we would have found Bilbo hanging he's shirt to dry near the fireplace, while Gandalf would have whispered some words of design into the dried wood, and they would have caught fire. Bilbo took a rock as a seat, and held his hands close to the fire. Sparks were rising merrily, and when the wizard followed them with his wary look, they started to form all sorts of shapes and words, in elven and other.  
  
"Tell me, what is that thing, a statue or a building then?" Kept Bilbo asking. While doing that, he nudged Gandalf's elbow and pulled his sleeves. "Come on, tell me, I can't go to sleep now because of you," The wizard seemed to be in deep thoughts, but finally Bilbo's annoyingly persistant attempts woke him up.  
  
"There's nothing down there that could cause you to get very rich very suddenly, nor is the tomb any use to any mortal, really." When finishing his sentence, Gandald realised that he had made another mistake and started coughing to draw attention from his words. Too late.  
  
"A tomb, you say! Made of silver and all! Wow, I bet it's a mauseleum for a famous king, or a hero!"  
  
"What you are speaking now is foolery. I have seen it once from up close, and there isn't any way for it to opened anyway. It is a tomb, that I know from the scrolls of Minas Tirith. You are right about the fact that it is indeed made of silver, but not of any ordinary silver - mithril. Wrong are you there about kings and heroes. There is a being buried in there, but he or she did not descend from any kingship or divine kinmanship. Leave it be, the mountain waters are too cold and chilling anyway for you to take any action."  
  
So spoke Gandalf, many years ago, when Bilbo was young and free of the toxic poisoning of the Ring. They continued their journey towards the dwarf settlement, and Bilbo had forgotten his hasty thoughts when he woke up. It had been springtime and the waters high and free to float the riverbanks. Now it was mid-summer. On the horizon the Silver Tomb shone, and Bilbo realised, that he could not complete his book, unless he would unravel the questions that he wasn't able to crack so many years ago: what was in the Tomb, and who had built it? Why was it built and how?  
  
Towards Almo and Elme he took his steps.   
  
"I guess there's time for a last adventure," he said out aloud and hurried towards the Silver Tomb. 


	2. All Is Not Silver That Glitters

As the life in the Shire had lessened Bilbo's need for puzzles and games, then the old tomb presented in itself a sufficent load of thinking-ware for a lifetime, and, truth be told, thats what he secretly hoped for. The one last adventure! With trolls, orc-warriors, maybe a few dragons and lots of buried treasure and hobbit-maidens yileding themselves between his hands... Oh, that was the stuff the pinkish-blue clouds of dreams were made of. At least for Bilbo.  
  
Wandering to himself he had now finally reached the river-banks, and as looking down, the gentle little stream didn't resemble anything like it had been and would be on the time of spring, with leaves skidding and surfing the current downwards. Bilbo did a leap over the creek, and landed on the green lush grass, that covered the island, for the ground was fertile from all the rubble and dirt the water washed down from the highland.  
  
The Tomb was in his reach. Suddenly he realised that all this was foolishness, an old man's dream.   
  
"A last adventure, hmphh," mumbled Bilbo to himself. "A lump of mithril or silver shaped like a house in the middle of an island, with no doors or exits. There is no way of getting in and finding out what's inside of it. If only Gandalf was here. Yes yes, I'd know what he would say, 'A shadow has risen in Mordor, we must act quickly yaddy-yaddy-yadda' and so on. But now I'm on my own, without any wizards, and even the Sting has chosen to depart with a more worthier hero."  
  
After circling the tomb trying to find any cravices resembling knobs or handle's, he gave up and sat down. Some minutes passed as he stared at the thing like he wanted to crush it with his eyes, he opened his book and started to scribble something down, rapidly and excitedly.  
  
"And thus I stood before the great and mysterious tomb of ages, the tomb that had made many high-born kings take off their golden crowns and scratch their heads. Who knows how many of the elven-kind have stepped down from their holy steeds to throw a glance at the mithril puzzle and then turn away dissatisfied and disgruntled. Who, then, could think of a simple and a pleasent hobbit, like me, to reveal its secrets and..."  
  
As suddenly as he had started he stopped the quill. Now he'd done it. It can't be erased from the book. Nor can he disgrace himself to the level of tearing out the page. This was the point of no returns.  
  
"Look at what You've done, Bilbo Baggins of Shire. All was relativly well and good, you had your book and your big advetures, but still You yearn for more," mumbled he to himself, as he threw the book aside for a moment. "Now you simply must discover what this tomb protects and holds. And discover you will."   
  
The last sentence was meant to be very confident and own a quality of the northern winds, but as he got up and spread his arms to declare the self-immenent victory he felt an unsuspecting beetle being flown deep into his throat, and so he coughed the last words like a frog.  
  
As he had three more days easy to reach Rivendell in intended time, he started to empty his bag down near the tombside. A frying pan appeared, a foodstock enough to feed a legion of orcs, and some candles. The night had sneaked behind Bilbo's back, and after hearing of Gandalf's constant rumblings on about 'vile and spiteful creatures lurking in the shadow of Mordor', he just had to light a fire.  
  
Although the fire did its best, compared to the pure and almost solid rays of light the tomb threw, it had to acknowledge its inferiority. As Bilbo didn't believe in miracles, he did not believe that he'd live to see fairies agai, for they were scared away by the stink of burning trees, their kindred spirits. Imagine then yourself, if you are able to, on a small island with no-one around, with rumors of hideous beasts running free, a mysterious mithril tomb, before you and the burdain of the One Ring just lifted off your shoulders, when hearing footsteps.  
  
!Snap! went Bilbo's worn-out nerves and he shot up like an arrow, and then petrifying himself in hopes of making himself look like a treestump, so that the evil minions of Sauron and the pesky humans would leave him alone.  
  
"Greetings, traveller."  
  
Bilbo froze. He had just heard voices from behind the tomb, and now voices behind him? He must be surrounded. Or the trolls have returned to make revenge on his last few days in Middle-Earth for their loss of brothers? Or both? But then again, no. The voice was all too calm, not deep and woody, not like the trolls voice at all. So Bilbo turned around.   
  
"And you are...?"  
  
"My friends in the woods and on the plains call me by many different words and languages. Your kind may know me by the name of Radagast."  
  
Bilbo dropped the stone he had secretly picked up when hearing sounds, for even that he hadn't heared that name before, the noble looks of the humble old man standing before him convinced him of his good nature.  
  
"If you plan me no harm, then I ask you to sit down here with me by the fire, and rest, for I see you have travelled quite a lot by the looks of your equipment." As there was no immidiate danger abroad, Bilbo started to open his pack of pancakes and cheese stocks.   
  
"It is not my feet that are weary," said Radagast and waved his hand at the glade near the two rivers. If Bilbo hadn't been so busy spreading butter on the pancakes, he'd seen a unicorn leaving, the same unicorn the old man had rode on. From his cornenr of his eye Bilbo did still observe the strange visitor, for if even he pretended that he could care less who the man was, inside he was feeling all the opposite.  
  
"These are very dangerous days to be travelling alone, I mean with all the 'shadows rising' stories and all. What business would drive an old, but honorable man out of his dwelling towards here, where the elven noble's live and give refuge to the needy?"  
  
The man called Radagast took out a little pipe, and stuffed some weed into it, but did not light it. Something was out of place. Bilbo 'saw', that the traveller was looking old, had a long beard like Gandalf's, but his motions, gestures and the tone of voice was all wrong.  
  
"I come from the west, where I had dwelled since I arrived to Middle-Earth," he said. "This is the second time I've seen this contraption, you know."   
  
The last sentence came with such a voice as he was remembering something so calm and relaxing, that for a moment Bilbo thought he saw the man smile blissfully.   
  
"So you seek to enter the Silver Tomb, eh? I guess everyone do, but none remember how they did."  
  
"Excuse me, I didn't quite get it. And I am, very much, interested in finding an entrance into it. Who wouldn't? Take a look at the material it is made of. Silver or mithril. It must hold something valuable."  
  
The old man rose up, grabbing his staff. It afterwards occured to Bilbo that it was strange, how there were small branches and even a blossom growing out it, as if it was still fastened into the earth by roots.   
  
"I must depart of your company. I must meet with my companions, and the depart forever, one way or the other."  
  
Bilbo lifted his eyes from the sizzling bacon to check how the old man was going to cross the dried up river and its high banks, but the man was gone.  
  
"... Send my greetings to Mithrandir, Bilbo Baggins..." Did the wind in the willows suddenly whisper.  
  
At that point Bilbo got a serious case of goosebumps.   
  
He grabbed the book from the ground, held it closely against himself, and started backing up, with his little eyes trying to pierce the dark.  
  
"Strange old men appearing from nowhere, appearing and disappearing, tombs that glow in the dark and - " He never got to finish the sentence.  
  
The power that was holding him was too powerful for any mortal to deny it. He's feet did not touch the ground, as he started to glide towards the tomb, that had begun to shine as it was wishing to blind the sun. Gently gliding, he held to the book so hard as he was trying to make himself believe that it alone would keep him from flying away to the cloudy space itself.  
  
"Oh you stupid, stupid little hobbit, what is that you have gotten yourself into now?"   
  
He shut his eyes, when his back touched the metal walls of the tomb.   
  
"My saviour, the tomb. I wouldn't suppose the thing holding the dead would help the liv - " But again was he cut off at mid-sentence. He suddenly became very cold. The melting, or mutating walls were, how to say, flowing? Although he was floating backwards, he felt the metal walls wave and ripple, like the ground would of, as some huge balrog was running towards Mordor to proclaim the victory over the last elf alive.   
  
The metal now covered his back, legs and hands, the book and the neck.   
  
"Like being buried into the ice, like ice..." mumbled Bilbo, when the metal flowed into his mouth and suffocated him, he felt it going down his throat, nose and ears, it swallod Bilbo whole, and just as his nose was sinking into silver and mithril, the color of his eyes turned white, lifeless and full of nothing.  
  
...  
  
...  
  
"Where am I... Woe is me, and I am woe... I must surely be perished..."  
  
The room he was mumbling to himself was not empty, for someoene answered: "Welcome, Bilbo Baggins of Shire, the Bearer of the Necromancers Ring of Power, father of three and child of two."  
  
"Wha...? Who are you and where am I?"  
  
"You are nowhere and I am Melkor, strongest and purest of all of those who have walked the soil of this plane and above, master of all and creator of everything, destroyer of all and the tainter of the fools. Or, if that says nothing to you, then call me... Morgoth."  
  
... 


End file.
